


Delivery Upon Request

by misch3fbunni3



Series: Tit For Tat [1]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Angst, Beat Down, Blood and Violence, Can’t stop the whump pacifier, Chris is a good man, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, I have no clue where this came from, Injury, Poor Wesker, Scratching the itch, drugged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28850562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misch3fbunni3/pseuds/misch3fbunni3
Summary: Just a subdued Wesker getting his ass kicked by Chief Irons. Delivered by Sergei at Irons's request. Chris helps clean up the mess.
Series: Tit For Tat [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124438
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Delivery Upon Request

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry. (Not really!!) I cannot stop bashing Wesker. I just can’t stop. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved the shit out of him at first sight in ‘97 even with the terrible RE1 graphics. Something to do with my first famous crush being Julian Sands and that was how I imagined Wesker looking back in the day. Or maybe it was the horrific death of being impaled.
> 
> I was just sitting at work doing my thing and this... I don't know what this is, popped into my head. I imagined how much of a dick Wesker probably was to Irons. Just a gigantic pain in the ass always asking for shit and getting his way and this was birthed from that thought.
> 
> This was also supposed to be short…

Chief Irons grinned like a hyena as he watched a struggling haphazard rage-filled blonde-haired STARS captain forcefully pushed through his door. Shirt ruffled from an apparent struggle. Feet unsure as his posture wavered as if he had been drugged and hands tightly secured behind him—his notorious sunglasses nowhere in sight. A taller gray-haired man in a military-type greatcoat had a thick grip on the back of the blonde’s shirt to keep him steady and from falling on his face.

Irons’ tubby frame rose from his chair, clasping his hands together as he rounded his desk to receive the requested offering, “Sergei, you are an absolute gentleman. I wasn’t sure you would even be able to deliver and so soon if I might add.”

Finally, able to get what little bearings he had, Wesker snarled, slurring his words together, trying to focus angry eyes on the other men in the room, “What the fuck is thiss? What the fu..uck are you two playin’?”

Neither Sergei nor Irons responded but kept chatting over Wesker’s fury of how this clusterfuck of a moment came to be. Struggling more and spouting obscenities, Wesker tried to shift his weight to release the hold on his collar and to kick backward at Sergei’s calves. His hands were starting to go numb from the too-tight handcuffs, and he could feel his skin being rubbed raw the more he struggled.

Irritated at the attempted disruption, Sergei grew impatient with Wesker’s struggles as he tried to speak with Irons and twisted the writhing body towards him to deliver a brutal liver strike, dropping the blonde like a sack of potatoes and quieting the slurred, angry shouting.

Sergei looked down at the squinted eyes of his now quiet captive, who was slightly curled into a fetal position, staring up incredulously, barely comprehending what just happened. Wesker’s strained wet breaths sucked through a grimace, drool running down the side of one pale cheek as his blood pressure tried to stabilize itself from the immense shock to his system. Whatever concoction of drugs Sergei had used was hindering Wesker’s body’s ability to normalize.

Wesker watched helplessly as the two men grinned down at him. His brain muddled, and his reaction incredibly slow as he felt the first of multiple solid kicks connect with his torso and back. Unable to voice his anger and pain properly at what was occurring, he could not stop the involuntary sounds as Chief Irons dug the toe of his expensive shoes into his ribs and spine.

Having little control as his body still attempted to adjust to the intense drop in blood pressure from Sergei’s strike and not able to protect vital organs as his hands were secured behind his back, Wesker could only attempt to slide his body across the floor, trying to distance himself away from the brutal treatment.

A thick boot heel pressed against his neck and effectively stopped the feeble attempt to shift away, allowing precision kicks to target Wesker’s left side over and over, bruising and potentially cracking a rib or two. Wesker’s attempts to keep breathy cries silent failed as he made it known to his antagonists his extreme discomfort.

Wesker heard the men speak but couldn’t tell what they were saying as he tried gasping raspy, frothy breaths into his struggling lungs. Suddenly, Wesker felt a heavy weight against his upward-facing hip as Irons crouched over him and proceeded to deliver several punches in quick succession to his right kidney.

Wesker’s body convulsed, a loud agonizing cry torn from his throat as he writhed under Irons’ heavy bulk, trying to attempt to roll and curl in around the brutalized kidney, but was kept in place by the heel at his neck.

After what felt like several minutes, the attack on his kidney stopped abruptly, and his shirt was grabbed roughly as he was forcefully pulled up into Irons’ fat, greasy face. The man’s stinking breath of alcohol and cigars rank and roiled his stomach as he sucked in pained breaths, eyes squinting.

A meaty fist snapped against his left cheek, cutting the tender flesh inside against his teeth and causing him to gag as blood trickled down his throat from the angle he was being held. Wesker spared no filter for the amount of contempt he held for these two men except before he could attempt to say anything through the blood dripping from his mouth, a fist was driven into the bridge of his nose, causing his skull to crack against the floor as his shirt was released.

Wesker made unarticulated sounds as the cartilage was forced back, immediate blood gushed from his nose, and involuntary tears burst from his clenched eyes, head-spinning violently from the repeated damage and drugged state.

Irons leaned over the supine form gripping the soiled shirt that had become splattered with Wesker’s blood, “I know what you do on your downtime, you fucking—!” But before Irons could finish his statement, a large wad of bloody spit hit the side of his face. Irons stared down incredulously as Sergei’s barking laughter rang loudly through the eccentric office. It was even more surprising Wesker was coordinated enough to even manage the ability to spit and at such a faraway target.

Wesker rasped weakly, chest heaving, “What I do… is none of… your fucking business… you worthless fat fucking… piece of sh—!”

The next strike was merciless as Irons brought a surprisingly powerful hook right into Wesker’s crotch, causing Wesker’s body to jerk violently from the action as he attempted to curl into himself, trying to bring his legs up to protect despite Irons still hovering, a choked wet sound of anguish as Wesker heaved and vomited blood and whatever had been left in his stomach from lunch earlier in the day. The second punch immediately followed the first after it had been ground into the delicate organs, causing Wesker to vomit even harder, and subsequent retching brutalized the already raw throat once his stomach was empty. Thick tears flowed from Wesker’s clenched eyes at the involuntary actions.

Sergei chuckled, “Enough, enough, you had your fun, Comrade. As requested.”

However, Irons was not done. Tired of having to deal with Wesker’s prick attitude and getting his way with so much shit just because the blonde had been a chief researcher. Irons fully intended to get what he requested. Snarling loudly as the man below him kept trying to catch a breath, Irons punched Wesker hard enough to jerk his head towards the ground with a loud wet smack, his left eye immediately turning bright red.

Sergei stepped forward, placing a hand on Irons shoulder, who was raising his fist for another sucker punch, “No eyes. Those are mine. Plus, don’t want to break him quite… yet.”

Wesker rolled his eyes up sluggishly, still trying to glare in absolute contempt at Sergei though he only came off looking like a kicked puppy. Choking his words through wet gasps, Wesker managed to hiss out, “Wh.. what are?! You.. you fucking… bastard!”

Wesker tried to rise but was very unsuccessful, starting to feel the full effects of Irons beatdown, and whatever drug Sergei had managed to slip him sapped his strength. Wesker’s point-of-view changed abruptly as he was harshly wrenched to his feet by the Russian’s large hands and pressed face-first into the elaborate door, causing him to gag, legs shaking as the upright position caused his damaged groin to stretch, bringing more intense nausea and causing the abused body to protest as he started to slip forward down the door.

Sergei mumbled words to Irons, bidding the chief a good night as he jerked Wesker back upright and forced him out the door into the quiet hall.

As Irons door closed, Sergei violently slammed Wesker against the opposite wall, jarring his tightly cuffed wrists and back as it made contact with the concrete. Not wanting Irons to listen in on what information he was about to bless Wesker’s ears with, Sergei stepped forward to close in on his personal space.

Holding up the trembling body, Sergei’s hand sunk roughly into Wesker’s cheeks, causing him to make a pitiful impression of a fish, short gasps of air sucked in through red-tinged drool.

Turning the enraged face to the side, Sergei grinned as he leaned in close enough to brush his lips against the shell of Wesker’s ear, who tried to jerk away, but Sergei’s grip on his jaw tightened, wrenching a soft sound as the cut on the inside of his cheek reopened, “Yes. It was I who took your perfect eyes.”

Sergei kept his eye on Wesker’s expression as he relayed this news to the younger man. The reaction was slow, but he cherished the shock building in the widening eyes, the unrelenting rage that filtered in at finally registering Sergei’s words, and the initiation of a violent struggle as the shoulders tried to leverage against the wall, which Sergei crushed instantly by jerking a knee in between Wesker’s slightly bowed legs, ripping a strangled anguished sound from the cinched mouth.

Sergei had to catch the sudden dead weight, which caused Wesker’s abused crotch to sink further against the thick knee, wrenching another louder sound as he scrambled to rise up on jerky legs trying to find purchase.

Sergei smirked viciously at the building tears in Wesker’s squinted eyes as he tried to stop the whine rumbling from his throat, blood flecking his chin as he wheezed.

Leaning forward again, Sergei whispered against the sweaty forehead as the trembling body still tried to regain solid footing, “I just wanted you to know, dear comrade.”

.....

Despite the late hour, Chris was just finishing one of Wesker’s tedious ‘punishments,’ transferring old evidence boxes from the bottom shelf of a whole section to the top shelf the next row over.

How was he supposed to know who the box of donuts sitting on an unattended community table was for? It must have been someone new because everyone would have known that anything placed on that table was free game. Sighing in irritation, he was resentful. He was always being punished for other people’s mistakes.

Huffing and ready for a quick rinse off of all the disgusting dust particles that crusted his sweaty skin. Some of those old evidence boxes were a good 50 pounds. He stepped into the STARS office to see if Wesker was still there, but his office was empty, though the captain’s pack was sitting in the same spot it always did. The longer he stared, the more he felt unease. Items usually situated in order on the desk were knocked over, several pens on the floor.

Stepping towards the office, he noticed small daps of what looked like blood on a few crumpled papers. Worried, Chris stepped back out into the hallway to look for his captain, knowing something was off.

Chris found him in the first place he checked as it was the closest spot for privacy this late in the evening. Wesker was balancing himself precariously on his open locker, standing but hunched over. Hearing Chris’s entry, he slowly shifted his eyes towards Chris, ignoring the quick ‘Fucking shit’ sputtered from the younger man who stepped forwards hurriedly.

With an exasperated sigh, Wesker cut off the tirade before it began, “I’m fine.”

Chris was within arm’s reach now, looking incredulously at Wesker’s condition, “You sure as fuck don’t look fine!”

Upturning his bruised and bloody face to glare menacingly at the brunette, Wesker snarled, “Fuck off, Redfield!”

Chris stopped short of reaching out to steady the wobbling posture but remained planted to the spot, “No Wesker! Who did this?!”

Wesker completely ignored the question, trying to grasp his authority in the situation, “That’s ‘Sir’ to you!”

Chris huffed and tapped his wristwatch, “Off the clock.”

Wesker eyed Chris’s stubborn expression. He was tired, exhausted, his dick ached dreadfully, and he already knew his balls were black and blue and swollen. He had to take a piss but knew that most of it would be blood anyway if not all of it.

Clenching his eyes shut, Wesker made a controlled fall onto the bench closest to where he had been standing. He gently ran a hand over his genitals, an agonized pained sound ripped from him, bowing his back as the aching pain of the constriction of his tactical pants and started fumbling with his belt and zipper, trying to remove the restricting material as quickly as possible, completely ignoring Chris’s presence.

A slightly awkward silence followed until Wesker puffed out sharply, “If you are going to stay, at least be fucking useful. Get my boots… will you.”

Chris silently complied, crouching and untying just enough laces to get the boots off. Wesker shuffled his pants down the rest of the way, sluggishly tossing them with one foot against the bottom of his locker.

It had been a while since he hurt this badly. Whatever chemicals Sergei had used still ran through his system, leaving him feeling lethargic and making everything feel hazy except the pain, which felt sharp and accentuated.

Fucking Irons. Fucking Sergei. By the end of all of this, Wesker would ensure they both suffered greatly.

Reluctantly, Wesker glanced to the still crouched figure, “Do you have any… any sweats or anything light.”

Chris shuffled to his feet, turning away towards his own locker, “Let me check.”

As Chris turned, a few tears slipped past Wesker’s defenses, and he growled, wiping at them furiously, pinching his brow with shaking hands. How badly he wanted to let more underlying tears slip, but no, he would not cry in front of his subordinate, no matter how much he truly wanted to. Fuck he hurt. Everything hurt, which was the understatement of the year.

Wesker had joined the military to get away from Sergei, the man infuriating him to no end. Despite the grueling training he endured and taking on a few martial arts styles in the interim to expand out his techniques, it apparently still wasn’t enough to best the man.

Not even able to outwit the crafty Russian, the fucker had snuck up on him so quietly Wesker didn’t even know what hit him until he felt the needle prick in his neck, the chemical instantly effective and potent.

When he heard the familiar deep laugh, it had made him see red, and he struggled violently. At least he attempted to, until a burly hand dug into the flesh of his collarbone, threatening to snap the delicate bone. The hold had caused him to drop instantly to his knees, and he barely processed being rammed forcefully to the floor and roughly rolled onto his stomach, hands quickly bound tightly, the chemicals taking an almost paralyzing effect.

Wesker returned to the present as he wearily watched Chris approach, returning with a pair of thin workout pants. Chris handed them to Wesker, who took them in a shaky hand, which he placed back onto the bench, trying to hold up his hunched shoulders, “Appreciated.”

Chris suddenly noticed the dark bruising and raw looking skin of Wesker’s wrist as he took the pants and quickly snapped his eyes to the other wrist that bore matching injuries. There was more going on than Wesker getting into what looked to be a one-sided fight, “You sure you don’t…”

Wesker’s eyes blazed in frustration, voice rising, “Stop. Just fucking… stop. For once, Chris just shut the fuck up and either help or get the fuck out.” Wesker glared at Chris in pure exhaustion and seething in unrestrained anger as he hissed through bloody teeth as the outburst jolted his injuries further.

Chris held his tongue, not able to help but stare with deep concern at his captain’s still bloody face, his nose apparently broken, left eye puffed and bruised. Whoever had done this, their goal was to incapacitate as much as possible without severe injury. Or so it seemed.

Trying to change the subject somewhat, Chris reluctantly commented, “Fuck, that must hurt like a bitch.”

Wesker groaned, the anger disappearing slightly back to fatigued irritation, not even remotely in the mood for the quick wit, “Please be more specific. Everything fucking hurts.” Chris said nothing but pointed to his own nose. Wesker scoffed, bringing a hand up to gently prod at the dried mess and the awkward puff of the bridge of his nose. It didn’t feel like it was out of place, but the swelling would keep him from breathing through his nose for a while.

Shifting impatiently as Wesker slowly inspected his nose, “I’ll help you wash up. You plan on taking a shower or just cleaning off the blood?”

Avoiding Chris’s gaze as he dropped his hand away, he reluctantly replied honestly, “I don’t think I could stand long enough for a shower.”

Dropping his gaze further, Wesker started unbuttoning his shirt, fingers fumbling, and it took several moments for him to undo just one button. Wesker grunted in irritation at his lack of coordination, his wrists burning and stiff where the skin had rubbed raw and had dried. Chris sighed and crouched down in front of Wesker, hovering but not touching anything but the shirt to resume the process faster, knowing Wesker was extremely exhausted.

Wesker swallowed, not one to allow someone else to help with such an obvious menial task, but he did not complain or stop Chris’s actions. Wesker only looked away uneasily, eyes slit as his body trembled, hands grasping the edge of the bench to anchor his body upright.

Chris helped him remove the unbuttoned top. The undershirt underneath, though, would be a problem, and Chris rose to step back, waiting for Wesker to figure out what he wanted next.

After a minute or so, Chris prompted, trying to move things along, “So…”

Wesker snapped, wanting nothing more than to lie down on the cool flooring of the locker room, “So what?!”

Ignoring the flare, Chris kept on as if Wesker was not looking at him like he wanted to tear his face off, “You want the shirt off…”

Wesker bowed his head, contemplating the best approach. He really did not want to move his arms or anything for that matter, “Go get scissors… just cut it off.”

“Roger.” Chris tucked his lips between his teeth, eyebrows raised, as he about-faced and silently made his way back to the STARS office at a jog to grab scissors.

Quickly returning, he gently cut the shirt along the seams enough to remove it without jostling Wesker’s haphazard perch.

Chris’s eyes dropped to the finger-like marks along the right collarbone, obviously from a large hand. He knew better than to ask.

A large dark bruise just under his ribs on the same side and several other smaller marks along the pale skin.

Chris shifted to examine Wesker’s back, looking for more damage, and catching sight of the massive bruise over Wesker’s right kidney, jerked back, whispering under his breath, “Oh fuck. This is bad.”

Wesker spared a look up at the cuss. Wesker's voice wavered slightly, concerned that maybe he missed something, “What’s bad?”

Chris ignored the glazed stare, humming, not sure what to say as he kept staring.

Shouting, Wesker was getting impatient, “What’s bad?!”

Chris jolted at the loud demand, “Your back… it’s just…”

Wesker cut him off, head sagging forward, “My kidney is… hopefully… **just** bruised. A few bruised ribs, maybe cracked. I don’t really even know. I can’t tell at the moment.”

Chris gently pressed against Wesker’s undamaged shoulder, “May I?”

Wesker shifted slightly at the contact, but at this point, he didn’t care, “Do what you must.”

Wesker’s body jerked as Chris prodded along the bruised ribs as gently as he could, feeling for anything that moved under his fingers. Finding none, Chris whistled, “You are one lucky guy sir, nothing seems broken. At least nothing that’s moving anyway.”

Wesker let out a light sigh, no major breaks were a relief, but that knowledge did not stop the pain to be any less worrisome.

Now to address the last of his injuries, Wesker dreaded even glancing at them, not wanting to know how bad he really looked.

Wesker quickly shuffled his boxers down his thighs to pool at his feet, avoiding looking down as he kicked the material away haphazardly.

Taking the pro-offered pants, Wesker grunted softly, face crumbling with the effort as he bent forward to shuffled his feet into the pantlegs one at a time and slid the soft, thin material up his legs, still avoiding looking down.

Taking a breath, Wesker stared at Chris, who was nervously looking away. Not that Chris hadn’t snatched quick glances at his captain naked while using the showers. The man was fucking hot, built, and damn fine. But this was certainly a delicate situation, knowing that there had been some sort of injury below the belt and certainly not a time to gawk.

Wesker whispered, unsure of himself at that moment, still avoiding glancing at the area, “Help me stand.”

Chris looked away but helped Wesker stand. However, his curiosity proved to be too strong and got the better of him. Chris quickly glance down and instantly regretted it, eyes gaping and snapping to Wesker’s face, “Fuck…fuck! I’m… I didn’t think it would be this bad… are you sure you don’t want me to take you?!”

Wesker sighed shakily but said nothing as his posture sunk down, keeping the pants from slipping down his legs, pressing more weight against Chris as he finally glanced down at his abused genitals, nervous at Chris’s obviously panicked response.

Eyes widening as he sucked a breath in, Wesker quickly looked upward at the drab ceiling blinking moisture away, expression uncertain and avoiding staring at the damage any longer than the few seconds it took for him to take everything in. He turned away further from Chris’s concerned gaze as he pulled the light material outward as not to brush delicate skin and up over his hips. The thin material covering him but not overly constricting like his clothes and undergarments had been, as the tender organs had swelled quite a bit.

Wesker’s mind raced, trying to take small wheezing breaths as panic started to escalate. Should he go? He really didn’t want to go. He’d have to explain what had happened, and that was **not** going to happen. Plus, they would probably take blood and find whatever was still circulating in his system, which would prompt more questions. Maybe he could wait and see if the swelling goes down? After several moments and wheezing breaths, Wesker finally responded to Chris’s insistence, “I think… I think I’ll wait. For the swelling to go down… that is... if it doesn’t, then I’ll go.”

Chris knew his captain well. He would not go to the hospital unless ordered or someone dropped him in a heap on the sidewalk of the ER bay. Chris sternly glared, “Pack your shit. You’re staying the night with me.”

Wesker jerked his head at the incredulous notion. He didn’t need a babysitter. Taken aback by the brunette’s forcefulness, “The fuck I am.”

Chris could feel Wesker pull away but kept his grip to keep him in place, “I know you, Wesker, you're a stubborn ass. Even if you need to go, you’d rather your balls fall off before asking for help. You’re crashing on my couch, at least for the night.”

Wesker let himself sink back to the bench wearily, forcing Chris to relinquish his grip, “Not true. I am quite fondly attached to my balls enough to get my ass to the ER before they fall off.”

Chris tried to stifle a small chuckle at the dry sarcasm, but still, concern etched deeply in his expression.

Motioning for Chris to assist him again, he grabbed his dress shirt and shoved it at him in silent demand to help him put it back on. He was not walking out bare-chested.

Once covered, Wesker made no motion to button the shirt up and asked for a cloth to start the tedious task of removing the dried blood from his broken nose.

After having Chris wash out the cloth several times, Wesker felt clean enough as he could be at this point. He glanced at Chris, who was set a ways away, waiting patiently for his captain’s next demands, “I need to piss.”

Chris helped Wesker shuffle to the urinal. One hand pressed against the wall for support, Wesker avoided direct eye contact with his swollen genitals but could feel the damage and tried to focus his attention on his stream. There was no surprise at the amount of blood that had filled his bladder.

There was a lot, and it did not lighten up as he emptied. He’d be pissing blood for days, if not a week. Resituating himself, thankful for the loose pants, Wesker looked over to Chris’s horrified-filled paled features, mouth agape.

Chris started to ask shakily, “You…”

Wesker's patience was running thin, becoming irritated at the continued incessant questioning. Wesker had been injured more severely before. He could take it, but his crotch was quite unsightly and throbbing and not in a good way. Despite him swearing off his subordinate’s concern, Wesker was a bit weary Irons went too far with that second punch. Sergei's knee didn't help either, nor the events that followed the short hallway confrontation of being forcefully dragged back to his office and tossed against his desk.

Trying to feign being nonchalant, Wesker badgered the younger man, “What?! Haven’t taken a kidney shot before?!”

Chris silently shook his head as he continued to gape at the bright red still situated at the bottom of the urinal.

As sarcastic as he could manage, Wesker hissed, “You’re missing out. I’d be more than happy to provide you with the experience.”

Chris responded immediately, eyes jolting up to meet the intense glare, “That’s a big fat fucking nope. I’m good. Keep your kidney punching to yourself.”

Wesker had started shaking, his arm holding him up not wanting to take on his weight anymore as his body threatened to crumple, except Wesker pushed himself just a bit further, “You sure?”

Chris saw the waver in Wesker’s posture and helped provide support once again, “Positive.”

Wesker closed his eyes, head lowered, “Can we go? Please? I really want to lie down. Preferably on something comfortable.”

Chris agreed. Fuck he was tired, but all he did was move boxes back and forth all day, not have the shit kicked out of him, “Yea, sure.”

.....

Chris’s apartment was a controlled mess as it had been both laundry and trash day, creating a false sense of security for Wesker that Chris’s messy desk was not also represented by his living space.

Once they were through Chris’s door, Wesker pointed to the couch where Chris quickly deposited him.

Chris rushed around, grabbing clean pillows, a sheet, and a blanket, and sat them next to Wesker, who had his head reclined, eyes closed, irises shifting under the lids.

Wesker sat quietly. Legs spread eagle as wide as he could manage without further discomfort to his ribs and back, hand placed gently on his abdomen. He so desperately wanted to touch himself in reassurance but knew it would cause immeasurable pain. He was exhausted, completely drained, and despite his grumbling, Chris’s couch was fairly comfortable.

Suddenly, he heard an odd crinkle close to his head, and he slit his eyes open. A bag of frozen peas was being offered about a foot from his face.

Nothing was said as he gazed up at Chris, a teeny tiny smile of gratitude, thankful for the young man’s soft heart who was willing to go out of his way to defend his captain’s honor, including sticking around to help clean up the mess. Wesker chuckled dryly, slowly taking the bag. He looked down and sighed as he placed the frozen legumes over his swollen genitals, his body jerking at the swift temperature change, gritting his teeth.

Slowly he relaxed back and shut his eyes tightly, thankful for Chris's intuition. Despite his pained expression, he knew it would not take him long to drift into a restful state, “Thank you, Christopher. You’re a good man.”

Chris had left the vicinity and was situated in the other room, but his muffled reply was clear as day, “Anything for you, Captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to put this in The Courting but decided to post it as a standalone instead. This was actually going to be much, much darker originally, but then I was like ‘Nah’ this is good enough. Just a good ol’ bashing.


End file.
